The Woman with the Map: An emotional and compelling historical fiction novel that you won't be able to put down

By Jan Casey

February 1941
The world is at war and Joyce Cooper is doing her bit for the war effort. A proud member of the Civil Defence, it is her job to assist the people of Notting Hill when the bombs begin to fall. But as the Blitz takes hold of London, Joyce is called upon to plot the devastation that follows in its wake. Night after night she must stand before her map and mark the trail of loss and suffering inflicted upon the homes, families and businesses she knows so well.

February 1974
Decades later from her basement flat Joyce watches the world go by above her head. This is her haven; the home she has created for herself having had so much taken from her in the war. But now the council is tearing down her block of flats and she's being forced to move. Could this chance to start over allow Joyce to let go of the past and step back into her life?

An emotional and compelling historical fiction novel perfect for fans of Fiona Valpy, Mandy Robotham and Catherine Hokin.

Readers love Jan Casey:

'Captivating, heart-wrenching'saga... I adamantly recommend' NetGalley 5* Review

'A story of courage and hope' NetGalley 5* Review

'Drew me in straight away and I just wanted to keep on reading until I finished it' NetGalley 5* Review

'Gut-wrenching and hopeful, this book is just beautiful. I stayed riveted the entire time and could not put it down' Goodreads 5* Review

'Full of fervour and the characters grow from beginning to end! I could not put the book down!' NetGalley 5* Review

'A book that you won't want to put down. I loved all the characters and where this book took me. A lovely read' NetGalley 5* Review

'Was desperate to see how it panned out... Very interesting reading it from both sides rather than just your own country. Recommend it' NetGalley 5* Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Mar 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781838930776

Jan Casey

Jan Casey's novels, like her first – The Women of Waterloo Bridge – explore the themes of how ordinary people are affected by extraordinary events during any period in history, including the present. Jan is fascinated with the courage, adaptability and resilience that people rise to in times of adversity and for which they do not expect pay, praise or commendation. Jan is also interested in writing about the similarities as opposed to the differences amongst people and the ways in which experiences and emotions bind humans together. Jan was born in London but spent her childhood in Southern California. She was a teacher of English and Drama for many years and is now a Learning Supervisor at a college of further education. When she is not working or writing, Jan enjoys yoga, swimming, cooking, walking, reading and spending time with her grandchildren. Before becoming a published author, Jan had short stories and flash fictions published.

Book preview

ONE

Wednesday 20 February 1974

The envelope Joyce picked up from the mat was stamped Urgent in large, red, angry letters. She stared at it, turned it over in her palm, then threw it on top of the pile of letters on the table by the front door, each of them marked in the same way. It was cold and damp and all she wanted to do was close the door, light the gas fire, put on the kettle, fire up the geyser and spend the evening curled up in her usual position on the settee. Ignoring the eight – or did this letter make it nine – official notices, she shot the bolt across the door, nudged the sausage dog draught excluder along the gap at the bottom of the wood and pulled the orange flower-scattered curtain tight across the lot. Her eye caught the accumulated stack of correspondence, but she rubbed her hands together to warm them, changed her court heels for a pair of cosy slippers and made her evening round of the flat. There was no hurry to open any of the letters as she was well-aware of the information they contained. And as far as she was concerned, none of it was urgent.

Striking a match, she turned on the gas and held the light against the ring on the stove until, with a click and a whoosh, the gas bit the flame and exploded into a blue aurora of glowing heat. She turned to the sink, held the kettle under the running water and peered out at the yard. Despite the inclement weather, snowdrops returned her gaze. Purple and white crocuses poked their heads above the dirt in clay pots and, remembering her reluctance to kneel on the dank, grey paving slabs and plunge her hands into the potting soil last autumn, she was glad now that she had and the modest display of early spring made her smile.

Two spoonfuls of tea in the pot, a cup and saucer, two digestives nestled on the side. While the tea was drawing, Joyce knelt in front of the fire in the sitting room, turned the dial and pushed on the pilot button to the count of eleven. When she heard the comforting muffled hiss that meant the heat was coming through, she put one hand on the coffee table, the other on her thigh and levered herself up.

She stood for a minute and watched, through the gauze of the net curtains, the steady stream of shoe-clad feet walking past her basement flat. If she had been unaware that it was teatime and the end of the working day, the sound of the boots and heels and loafers making their way to families or the pictures or the pub or to visit friends would have told her more certainly than any clock. The steps were somehow lighter and less troubled than the footfall going towards places of work in the morning. There were muddy shoes, shiny shoes, casual and formal shoes. Black, brown, grey, navy blue, red, green, lace-ups, slip-ons, steel-toe-capped boots and of course, the magnificent multi-coloured platform shoes that so many young people were wearing these days. The girls’ dresses and skirts were much too short to be in her line of vision but if she could have seen them, they would be psychedelic swirls of paisley and cubes and stars topped by straggly Afghan coats. They were beautiful, she couldn’t deny it, but when she was that age all anyone had wanted out of a coat was that it could be buttoned and belted as tightly as possible against the cold. She couldn’t fathom any other point to a coat than that.

A couple went past walking in tandem, their bell-bottomed jeans billowing around their huge, clumpy shoes. His in two flashes of brown; hers in shades of green and blue. Joyce caught a murmur followed by a burst of guffaws and for a split second it looked as though the two pairs of shoes might somehow become entangled, but they moved on leaving an echo of laughter trailing behind them.

If she were thirty years younger, would she dare to wear the latest trendy shoes? It was difficult to imagine that she would. Like coats, the shoes she and her contemporaries had worn were practical and if they were lucky enough to have a special pair, they would have been fashioned from good, solid leather in a colour that matched everything, been polished lovingly and saved for high days and holidays.

Joyce remembered that at twenty-one, she had owned a pair of brown brogues that she wore summer and winter. A treat was buying a new pair of laces and that was only after the old ones had been cut and retied countless times and then become frayed beyond repair. And that was it, apart from a lovely pair of black, patent heels that Auntie Cath had given her when the older woman’s bunions made it impossible for her to cram her feet into the leather any longer. There must have been other shoes, she thought. She couldn’t have gone through the entire war with the same two pairs of shoes. Or perhaps she had. After all, everyone had been entrenched for years in the spirit of make do and mend.

The geyser burst into action with a comforting clunk, clunk, clunk that increased to a grating crescendo much like the noise of the V-1s as they’d glided over London minutes before falling to the ground in a steep dive. Joyce poured the tea into her cup, gathered the latest copy of Woman’s Realm under her arm and made for the settee where she intended to relax with her feet up. But the unopened stockpile of letters niggled at her and with a sigh, she grabbed them from the table and placed them on the floor where she could reach them when she’d finished her tea and biscuits. Then an article about the advantages and disadvantages of tea bags versus loose leaves caught her attention. Next there was the problem page; horoscopes; a pattern for a loosely crocheted poncho-type garment; the third instalment of a gripping serial about a woman who was trying to choose between the advances of a vicar and a farmer; and a pull-out section dedicated to recipes for under seventy-five pence each. But what was that in old money? She began to scribble in the margin to convert the costs back to shillings and pence, but the photos of food set out in a mouth-watering colour spread made her thoughts drift to the leftover steak and kidney pie in her fridge. She would pop it in the oven, boil a few potatoes with a handful of chopped carrots and green beans and it would be ready in no time; she was looking forward to it and her stomach rumbled in accordance.

Then her toe caught the letters and she stumbled. Blasted things, she thought. Plucking one from the top of the pile, she took her fingernail to the flap and tore it open. It came as no surprise that it was from the London County Council Housing Department and that every page was marked Urgent. Without bothering to read it or open the other envelopes, she gathered up the letters and put them back on the table by the front door. Urgent, she thought. They had no idea about the meaning of the word.

TWO

February 1941

Joyce nodded at Percy, her partner for the night, and he tapped his cap in her direction in response. He was a slim, energetic man with a thick head of hair who was old enough to be her dad – if her dad had still been alive. Darkness fell, the warning sounded, the bombing started and from the minute they emerged from their basement headquarters into the screeching, smoke-filled night they were caught up in the chaos.

They chased the bombs from one hole in the ground to the next, from flattened buildings to demolished roads; running for all they were worth between incendiary fires to trapped civilians and back again. Each time there was a hit, and within minutes she’d lost count of the dozens and dozens, they raced to the scene to do whatever they could to ascertain who might be inside, who could have escaped, who was injured and how they could help. For each incident Joyce wrote as many details as necessary on an ARPM1, flagged down a messenger on a bike and sent him on his way to alert Report and Control to send an ambulance or firefighters or the rescue services. Then she and Percy administered as much help and comfort as they could or made the decision to leave the casualties on their own and turn their attention to another emergency next door or across the road or two streets over.

Ladbroke Grove was ablaze. At number 53, a young mum of perhaps twenty-three or four – not much older than Joyce – stood in what was left of her doorway with a tiny, crying child covered in brick dust and beetroot-red scratches holding tight around his mother’s neck. The front part of the house stood but the back was nothing more than flames licking towards the burnished sky. The minute she and Percy arrived on the scene, the young woman thrust the child into Joyce’s arms and hurtled herself upstairs screeching, ‘My baby!’

Percy pulled her back but not before the ends of her hair caught alight. The woman, oblivious to the odour of her own scorching hair or the flames lapping her face, screamed again for the baby and fought Percy with thrashing arms, but Percy brought her to the ground and rolled her backwards and forwards to put out the fire, then he covered his face and found the little one – pinned under a pile of rubble. When he emerged from the bedroom, empty-handed and coughing into his elbow, he shook his head and without exchanging a word, they knew they could not give that terrible news to the poor mum, sobbing on the floor. She was in no fit state to hear it.

Joyce felt that her heart, if she let it, would shatter and then she would be done for. She braced every muscle in her body, tensed her shoulders and legs and neck and called on every reserve of discipline she could muster to stop herself from cuddling up next to the young woman and draping her arms around her heaving chest. Instead, she nestled the little boy next to his mum where they clung to each other. ‘Here, take this,’ Joyce shouted above the incessant bombardment. She handed the mother a length of bandage to mop up some of the blood that was beginning to cake on her forehead and wipe at the snot running from her nose, but she chose to spit on the material and dab at the cuts covering her son’s pudgy face and hands instead.

Then without warning, something on the roof shifted and gave way with an almighty crash. ‘Lift on three,’ Joyce yelled as Percy took the arms and she the legs, and together they lifted the mum and little boy to the street where all around them high-explosives and baskets of incendiaries found their targets. Bricks and mortar fell, the low lights of other wardens played chaotically from one raw, cankerous sore of a crater to another, fires lit the sky in oranges and reds to challenge any summer sunset. For a flash, searchlights picked out one horrible scene before flooding another with light for a split second. Above the din of the sirens, they were assaulted by the ceaseless droning of planes, the clang of ambulances and fire trucks, the hammering of feet, the unnerving sound of collapsing masonry. Four wardens pounded past her going one way then three another. A drunk lurched along the jagged pavement, stumbling around pits and mountains of bricks. A sink lay upturned in what was left of a front porch; a ripped gardening gauntlet was poised on top of a mountain of dirt; an unattached hand, washed clean by water from a burst pipe, floated in the gutter; a flattened hat; a shapely stocking; a shredded book. And everywhere they looked there was fire.

A messenger skidded to a halt, took the ARPM1 from Joyce’s outstretched hand and pushed down so hard on his bike pedals that the muscles in his calves popped out like round stones. ‘Go!’ She bellowed as she pushed the seat of the bike to help him on his way, then felt bad because despite the fact that the scouts who took on the job were supposed to be at least fourteen, Joyce guessed he was no more than twelve at the most and she was grateful to him as he pumped towards Report and Control with her message in his pocket.

Percy pointed to an elderly man dragging an armchair, a potted plant balanced on the seat, from the wreck of a house on the opposite side of the road, his shirt unbuttoned and wearing nothing but tattered socks on his feet.

‘I’ll wait here until the ambulance arrives,’ Joyce shouted. Smoke filled her lungs with every breath she took while she waited, so she bent and wrapped her scarf around the young mum and child’s faces. ‘Thank you,’ the woman managed as Joyce took her pulse, afraid she was going into shock. That was overlooked so often, as everyone tried hard to be stoic and uncomplaining, but almost every casualty Joyce dealt with appeared dazed, their skin waxen, pale and covered in a thin film of clammy sweat. And that went for bystanders and those unharmed, too.

In the distance, Joyce heard the clatter of the ambulance and flailed her arms to let the driver know where to stop. It veered towards them at the exact minute a high-explosive tore into the already ravaged plot behind Percy and the older man. Joyce covered her ears and instinctively closed her eyes for a split second. When she opened them, Percy was hobbling towards her cradling his wrist close to his chest, a thin rivulet of blood flowing from his temple. ‘Percy!’ She called and ran towards him.

But he batted at her outstretched hand and shouted, ‘I’m fine. Don’t fuss. It’s nothing,’

Ignoring that demand, she bundled him into the ambulance, filled out a form, handed it to a passing messenger and ran towards… she couldn’t be sure… the direction of the high street, she thought. But before she got her bearings, she stopped at a large house of three flats that were ablaze. Two women were throwing buckets of water at the conflagration which was about as much good as if they had been using thimbles. Twice she hurled a chipped china chamberpot of water at the flames, but before she could fill it a third time, she heard the shrill cry of ‘Warden, we need you here!’ And she turned to see a woman dragging a man out from under a heap of rubble. Immediately, Joyce could tell the poor unconscious fellow would have to be made of stern stuff to ever walk again. His trousers were in shreds and his exposed right leg was a pulp of mangled red flesh. Joyce threw her coat over him and shivered when the sweat streaming down her back turned to an icy flow. Another ARPM1; another messenger; another ambulance. And so the night went on. And on. And on.

The smell of bacon frying in lard drifted along the hallway towards Joyce as she let herself into the terraced house. It was early, but Mum had probably left the underground the minute the all-clear was sounded, eager to get breakfast on the go and start on her other chores. ‘Hello, Joy love,’ Mum called. She appeared in the doorway, her apron tied around her middle and a cloth in her hand. ‘Everything alright?’

Joyce knew her mum was anxious for every minute she was on duty. Or shopping, or visiting her cousin, Flo, or on the bus to work. She worried about everything unremittingly. As a consequence, Joyce tried not to give her mother anything more to feel unsettled about than the burdens she already carried. She smiled as brightly as she could and said, ‘Ta, Mum. I’m fine. How was last night?’

Mum shook her head and twisted the cloth in her hands. ‘It’s so awful down there, love, really horrible,’ she said. ‘You know I never liked the underground at the best of times. And all I can think about is you wandering the streets with nothing but that bit of tin on your head to protect you.’

Joyce unbuckled her helmet and said, ‘I know, Mum. I stuck my head around a couple of times to see if all was well and it certainly wasn’t pleasant. But at least you’re safe down there and you have company.’

‘But it smells,’ Mum said.

Joyce had to laugh. ‘That,’ she said. ‘Is the least of our worries. And we’ve been over this. If we put an Anderson in the garden, you’d be sitting in it worrying all on your own. And that would be worse.’

‘I suppose so,’ Mum conceded. ‘Five minutes to bacon and a real egg.’

‘Oh, luxury.’ Saliva pooled in Joyce’s mouth at the thought of dipping a crust of toast into the yolk and watching the thick, yellow goo trickle onto the bread. She licked her lips and said, ‘Won’t be long. I’ll just sort myself out.’

Mum turned back to the kitchen and Joyce unlaced her shoes and swapped them for an old pair of socks she wore in the house. Then she stepped out of her dusty, dark blue ARP tunic and skirt and into a faded grey dress. When she checked the serge for stains and tears, which she would have to clean and mend before her shift tonight, pebbles of rubble showered to the floor; she pocketed them so Mum wouldn’t have to clear up after her. Next, she gave her whistle a quick clean on her sleeve and twirled the gas rattle once – all in working order.

‘Joy,’ Mum called. ‘There’s a bowl of warm water here for your wash. And a flannel.’

‘Ta, Mum,’ Joyce answered. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

Taking her full flask and uneaten sandwiches from her satchel, Joyce was overwhelmed by a wave of tiredness, and she had to rest her forehead against the wall.

A chill slithered up her spine and was immediately outstripped by a wave of heat and nausea when the image of the poor young mum from Ladbroke Grove flashed through her mind. As much as she was looking forward to breakfast, she would have loved to skip it and crawl between the sheets on her bed instead and sink into sleep. That might give her a bit of respite from the pictures whirling in her mind. But then she would have to face Mum’s questions and Mum wouldn’t like the answers she would be forced to give.

‘The egg’s in the pan, Joy,’ Mum called, and Joyce stuffed her untouched flask and sandwiches from the night before back into her satchel so Mum wouldn’t fret about her going the whole night without food or drink.

Mum filled Joyce in with all the news from the underground the previous night – everyone she’d seen and everything they’d talked about. Nana and Granddad had been there with Auntie Cath, Uncle Terry and Flo but Mum said, as she did every morning, they’d missed and worried about her, her brother Sid who was in the Merchant Navy, his wife Hettie who was living near her own mother and sister in Liverpool, and their two children who had been evacuated to Shropshire.

They were a close family and Joyce knew Mum loved company so she wondered, as she mopped up her egg with a slice of golden toast, why Mum would even entertain the idea of staying home rather than be in the underground, surrounded by the noise and chatter and gossip of the people she loved. But the fetid air, the lack of privacy, the sense of being hemmed in, queues for tea, anxiety about homes and people on duty above them – all of that must have been so hard to bear, family to take your mind off things or not. While Mum divulged her stories, the lines around her mouth concertinaed up and down like the hinged jaws on a puppet. She had every reason to complain, but never did. She didn’t nag, either. All she did was worry.

Try as she might, Joyce could not recall her dad. There was one photo of him in the front room and whenever his name was mentioned it was that image of her father that came into her mind; she had no memories of her own to call upon. Besides the fact that everyone commented on it, she could tell from what she discerned from the photo that she favoured her dad as far as looks were concerned. Since she had been a child, friends and family had enthused about her curly, dark auburn hair and eyes of such a pale hazel they appeared to be amber. Her brother, older than her with a house, a job and responsibilities of his own to attend to, was a combination of both their parents. But there was very little of her mother in Joyce, except perhaps her petite stature and she had always felt proud and honoured to take after the father she had not had the chance to know.

A neighbour had once referred to Joyce as her parents’ afterthought, but Mum had corrected her by saying, ‘Encore, Mrs Owens. Sid was such a lovely bundle, we went for an encore.’ Joyce knew that wasn’t the reality of her existence and that Mum and Dad had thought their family was over and done with by the time Joyce made her growing presence known. But despite the non-stop chat that went on in the family, she had never discussed that aspect of her life and didn’t intend to. She always felt surrounded by love and attention and care and that was good enough for her. The strength of feeling amongst them had made a much younger Joyce ask her mother why everyone in the family had the same middle name.

‘The same middle name?’ Mum had been perplexed. ‘We don’t,’ she’d said. ‘Your middle name is Margaret, love. After me, although I’m known as Maggie. But no one else has that as a middle name.’’’

Joyce had thought for a few minutes then insisted, ‘But what about the love name, Mummy? There’s Joy love and Auntie Cath love and Nana love.’

Mum had laughed until she’d cried and given Joyce a long, hard hug. She’d tried to explain that ‘love’ was a generic term of affection, but it took a few years for Joyce to understand. That story had been told to everyone they’d visited or who came to see them or who they’d bumped into at the shops or on the bus and it seemed to delight all of them.

Mum topped up Joyce’s teacup and asked her if she wanted a slice of toast.

‘No, ta,’ Joyce said, shaking her head.

‘Then Auntie Cath said to me,’ Mum didn’t skip a beat. I don’t know how we’re all managing to function during the day. What with not getting any sleep at all, night after night. Cruel, that’s what it is. Out and out cruel. You know what I mean, Joy, don’t you, love?’

Yes, Joyce agreed and the thought of having to change, freshen up, get on a bus and be ready for work in the Accounts Department of Bourne and Hollingsworth in a mere few hours caused fatigue to hit hard again. Instead of breakfast revitalising her as she’d hoped, the heavy, fried food dragged down on her eyelids as it followed its path to her stomach.

‘Joy,’ Mum sounded alarmed. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’ She jumped up and stood beside her daughter, one hand on Joyce’s forehead, the other on her back. ‘Do you need to put your head between your knees?’

‘No, Mum,’ Joyce managed a giggle. ‘I’m full, that’s all.’

‘Perhaps you should give today a miss and catch up on some sleep.’

But Joyce knew she couldn’t do that, money was tight as it was and hers was the only wage coming in. Joyce took her mother’s hand from her forehead and held onto it for a minute. ‘No need for that sort of mollycoddling,’ she said. ‘I’ll splash my face and hands and be as right as rain.’ She smiled with what she could feel were slightly quivering lips.

Squinting around the door, Mum looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and determined that Joyce had time for half an hour or so in bed before she needed to get ready for the working day. ‘That,’ Joyce said, ‘sounds like bliss. But please don’t forget to call me in time so I won’t be late.’

‘I promise,’ Mum said. ‘Now up those stairs.’

Joyce closed the window and drew the curtains in her bedroom that Mum had opened to let some air blow through, but smoke from the previous night’s bombing clung to the sheets, blankets, the moth-eaten rug and woolly dressing gown that hung behind the door. Flopping down on the bed, she brought the sleeve of her cardigan up to her nose and sniffed. Then she gathered the ends of her hair together and curled them around her top lip like a moustache; they smelled singed, too, and another vivid picture of that young mother from Ladbroke Grove with a halo of flames dancing along the lengths of her hair pushed its way into her mind and she screwed her eyes tight against the forceful image. But that only made the impression of what she’d seen more sickeningly defined and detailed and distinct. She let her head fall back on the pillow and wondered how long it would take for the memory to become blurred. Never, was her guess. Not unless a more distressing situation occurred which, she knew, was more than likely.

From under the soft, heavy, comforting blankets Joyce heard the sounds of Auntie Cath letting herself into the house. ‘Alright, Maggie love?’ she called out.

‘Shh,’ her mother hissed. And Joyce smiled when she pictured Mum pointing upstairs and beckoning Auntie Cath into the kitchen, her finger on her closed mouth.

The next thing Joyce was aware of was Mum, rocking her shoulder and telling her it was time to get up. Joyce sat bolt upright and rubbed at her eyes and hair. ‘Have I overslept?’ she asked. ‘I hope I’m not going to be late.’

‘No, Joy love,’ Mum’s voice had an edge of anxiety and excitement to it. ‘There’s a messenger named Bill at the door. Says he’s come to take you to Report and Control and it’s urgent. But won’t be drawn to say more.’

‘Me?’ Joy swung her feet to the floor and shook her head. ‘But …but… it’s daylight. What could they want with me at this time? Have I missed a whole day, Mum?’

Mum placed her hand under Joyce’s elbow to help her up. ‘No love, you’ve only been in bed for twenty minutes or so.’

Staggering to her feet, Joyce felt a rush of blood pulse against the sides of her skull and dots of coloured lights swam in front of her eyes. She had to steady herself on the chair next to the bed.

‘Joy,’ Mum’s voice rose with alarm. ‘You’re dizzy again. I’m going to tell that boy to come back later.’

But Joyce forced herself to recover and drew herself up to her full height of five feet three inches. ‘I can’t do that, Mum,’ she quipped with a contrived casual tone. ‘I’m too intrigued. Aren’t you? Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and see what all this is about.’

Mum followed close on her heels, reminding her to pick up her feet so she wouldn’t stumble, hold the banister for support, not to take the stairs two at a time and to wait for her.

The lad at the door was hopping from one foot to the other and blowing into his cupped hands in an attempt to keep warm; his bike, like a trusty steed, was leaning against the wall where he could keep it in sight. When Joyce appeared, he smiled at her as if they were great pals although she could not place him amongst the dozens of other messengers who snatched forms out of her hands during the long, raging, crisis-fuelled nights. ‘Warden Cooper,’ he said, squaring the scrawny shoulders that were having difficulty holding up his Civil Defence armband. ‘On the command of Controller Davis, you’re to come with me. It’s urgent.’

Despite the perplexing situation and how earnestly the boy was taking his duty, Joyce had to stifle a giggle. Thank goodness the Germans can’t see us depending on schoolboys to deliver our communications, she thought. They would think their victory was in the bag.

‘What’s all this about, Bill,’ Joyce said. ‘Do I need to put on my uniform again?’

A group of boys walked behind the young messenger, jostling each other and passing a football backwards and forwards between them. One of them stepped down hard on a patch of ice and cracked it with the heel of his hobnail boot. The sudden, loud report distracted Bill and he turned, alert and ready to offer his help. When he saw who had caused the noise, he relaxed his strained stance and lifted his hand to greet them. ‘Oi, Bill,’ one of the lads shouted. ‘Come on, we need a goalie.’

For a beat, Bill looked tempted but shook his head, turned back to Joyce and said, ‘No time for uniforms, Warden Cooper, as I said, you’re wanted urgently.’

‘Alright then, I’ll fetch my coat and hat. Won’t keep you a minute.’

But Mum beat her to the cupboard, clapped a billow of brick dust from her felt hat so the silver ARP badge pinned to it was revealed and handed it, along with her coat, to Joyce. ‘And don’t forget this,’ she said.

‘No, that wouldn’t do,’ said Joyce, wriggling into the strap of the gas mask that she hung around her neck.

Bill was on his bike and poised to pedal off when Joyce wheeled her own bicycle through the passage to the front path. ‘Thank you, Bill, you can stand down now.’

Bill replied through puffs of white, frosty condensation. ‘No,’ he shook his head.

‘I have been given the responsibility of a task and I will see it through. In fact, you can balance on my handlebars and I’ll deliver you to Control myself.’

‘I think it would be safer for both of us if we used our own bikes,’ Joyce said.

‘Then I’ll lead the way,’ Bill said, straddling his saddle and turning left towards the Civil Defence headquarters.

With a sigh, Joyce decided that nothing she said would deter him, so she manoeuvred her bike into position behind his and allowed him to act as her escort. During last night, the damage had appeared eerie and misshapen, lit by fires that burst upwards from direct hits all over London. As the flames had danced, they’d cast flashes of bright light across the devastation that caught the eye for a fleeting moment of time until searchlights played for a split second on the carcass of a building, a family sitting on a pile of bricks, an abandoned teddy bear, a burst and bubbling water main. But now, in the freezing cold, steely grey morning, the damage from the previous night could be viewed from a clear, unhindered standpoint. What she saw chilled her to the bone, but she managed to quell the surge of panic that tumbled in her stomach – giving into that feeling of alarm wouldn’t do anyone any good.

Nothing around her was as it had been since as far back as her first childhood memories. There was nothing left of Webb’s Greengrocers, but Mr Webb’s son was in position where the shop had stood, a sack of potatoes and another of onions by his side, serving a queue of jaded women. The baker’s was missing the flat above the shop; the doctor’s surgery was flattened but Dr Smith’s wife was helping people around the back to somewhere, a shed perhaps, where Joyce presumed they would be seen to; all that was left of the picture house was a wall with a poster glued to it advertising Freedom Radio, starring Clive Brook and Diana Wynyard; The Freemasons Arms, where Granddad and Uncle Terry liked to have a pint was completely gone – not a trace of it could be seen. Buildings stood proud while structures on either side of them were razed to the ground and Joyce wondered at how that could be possible. Firefighters remained in attendance at smouldering buildings with their hoses and stirrup pumps; cordons had been set around gaping pits that workmen were beginning to fill, using material from the numerous rubble mountains that littered the streets. Ruptured water mains were being patched and planks of wood were being nailed across any windows left unscathed. It was all so grim, and Joyce remembered Mum saying how atrocious it was that people had to go about their difficult work every day without getting any sleep at all the night before. It was hard to believe that any of them were standing, let alone able to function, but here they were. And there was Bill, casually weaving between icy puddles and bomb debris and, she could hardly believe her ears, whistling something jaunty. Peddling a bit faster, she drew closer to him and could make out the tune of Laughing it Off by Tommy Trinder. She smiled, then wet her lips and hummed along with him.

On the corner of Westbourne Grove, there was nothing else for it but to dismount and walk their bikes the rest of the way to Report and Control. Bill lifted his bicycle over a pothole and said, ‘Controller Davis will be wondering where we are. He said it was urgent.’

‘He’ll understand,’ Joyce said, lugging her bike above her head to follow Bill’s lead. ‘He knows what it’s like out here and he knows we will have done our best.’

When they found themselves on a somewhat clear length of road where they were able to walk side by side, Joyce asked Bill if he shouldn’t be at school. ‘Or… I don’t know, evacuated or something?’ Then she felt terrible and wished she could snatch back her words when she saw the crestfallen look on Bill’s face. ‘How old do you think I am?’ He was astounded.

‘I don’t know. I’m not very good with…’

‘I’m fourteen. And I’m apprenticed to Barker’s. You know the butcher in Bayswater?’

Joyce could vaguely recall the shop Bill was talking about. It wasn’t her mother’s choice of butcher, so she wasn’t familiar with the comings and goings there. ‘I think so. Is there a model of a pig in the window?’

‘That’s the one,’ said Bill. He looked almost as proud as he had when he’d reported to take her to headquarters. ‘I’ve helped him out since I was ten, with deliveries and orders and such like, and as he doesn’t have any sons he’s thinking of leaving the shop to me in time.’

‘Lucky you, Bill,’ she said. ‘Well done.’

‘Of course, as soon as I can I’ll join up so he might have to keep it going for me until we win the victory.’ He shrugged. ‘But we all have our duty to do, don’t we?’

Joyce considered the shop after shop that no longer existed. The haberdasher’s gone; the dry goods gone; the shoe emporium devastated; the fishmonger’s nothing but a shell. By the time Bill was old enough to become a soldier Barker’s might be nothing more than a memory and old Barker, if he had been minding the premises when the fatal bomb fell, nothing more than ash. It could happen at any time – next year, next month, next week, tomorrow. Then Bill’s dream of being proprietor of his own butcher shop would be reduced to a distant boyhood hope that he’d once harboured. And Bill was but a solitary figure amongst thousands, including her, for whom the expectations they had for the future might never be fulfilled.

Then again, it might all be over well before Bill was old enough to join the services and the butcher’s might pass seamlessly from master to apprentice. But if it were to finish in a flash, they were already at the point where nothing could ever be the same again. But she didn’t want to be the cause of putting paid to the messenger’s happy-go-lucky, whistling attitude to life so said, ‘Yes, Bill, we all have our responsibilities. But do you know, I don’t think it will come to you being called up in three years’ time. Mark my words, we’ll have won well before that.’

‘Shall we have a bet on it?’ Bill said.

‘What have you got to bet with,’ Joyce laughed.

‘Probably about as much as you. I’ll bet you a pork chop with a kidney attached.’

‘You’re on,’ Joyce said, imagining the meat cooked and on a plate in front of her and Mum. ‘And I’ll bet with my staff discount.’

‘From where?’ Bill asked.

‘Bourne and Hollingsworth.’

‘Oh,’ Bill’s eyes bulged. ‘I’d loved to get my mother a present from there. A lovely, soft, white hanky with her initials embroidered on it. SA. In lavender, her favourite colour. So, it’s a deal?’

‘Deal,’ Joyce said.

The house that had been seconded to the ARP for Group 1 Report and Control was much less lively during the day than it was at night. The hustle and bustle of firefighters, first aiders, messengers and wardens was missing and although the pattern of night bombing seemed to be set in concrete, a sense of urgency lingered as there were no guarantees that Jerry wouldn’t suddenly decide to bomb them all day as well as all night. The lightbox on the wall next to the door that declared the building to be an ARP Control Centre must have recently been extinguished because Joyce got a strong whiff of paraffin as she and Bill passed close to it. But the wooden, glass-fronted noticeboard had been shattered and the poster it held shredded and hanging over itself. Good, Joyce thought, hateful thing. Then she admonished herself right away, as to be pleased about any bomb damage was shocking and tantamount to barbarity. But she could not bear it. How dare that handsome young man in a warden’s helmet look down on her from his lofty position next to lettering that declared Air Wardens Wanted – A Responsible Job For Responsible Men. It was insulting and Joyce took it personally. Half the wardens in her area alone were women and, as far she was aware, doing the job as responsibly as any man.

Bill held the door for her, but as soon as she was in the hallway, he scooted in front so, she presumed, he could announce her arrival to Controller Davis. She allowed him that privilege as he was a boy trying to make his mark on the world and he had pulled off his duty admirably. They trailed past more posters pinned to the walls; cups, saucers, teapot, tea caddy and